


Eighteen Years Later

by punkrockbadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockbadger/pseuds/punkrockbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A father and a son have a much needed talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen Years Later

“You know, I’ve never understood why they keep asking me to speak here.” Harry says, rubbing his hands together as he eyes the podium nervously. Speeches have always set him on edge-- all his life, despite all the trouble he found and all the trouble that found him, he's never been one for attention. Having eyes on him just makes him nervous, makes him think of fifth year and the whispered, barbed insults that followed him around, and he'd much rather just stay in the comfort of his own home, but it is May second again, and others need what little comfort he can give. For a boy who grew up wishing for time to speed up and make him an adult already, the relentless forward march of time now confounds him. Perhaps it's because he now likes where he is, something the boy in the cupboard never even hoped for. “I’ve never been one for speeches.” He turns to his oldest son, sitting on the stone bench beside him. “Do you have an idea?”

“Sort of”, says little Jay (who is not so little anymore), while turning his face up to examine the spiderweb cracks in the stone ceiling that no one has bothered to fill. Eighteen years later, these small imperfections stubbornly remain, reminding those who look that Hogwarts has not always been peaceful. This too was a place of war, and recently enough that most of the parents are all nervous to enter, to visit the school where they spent their teenage years. They are afraid to see their children, smaller than they remember being at that age, wandering the halls of a school that taught them the sharp edges they all still carry like weapons. Jay, who is no longer anywhere near the size of a newborn boy Harry remembers holding close to his chest nearly twelve years ago on a stormy afternoon in July, looks right into his father's eyes as he speaks next. “You’re the sort of person that makes others want to be good. It’s a strategic move.”

“You spend too much time around Aunt Hermione.” Harry declares, before reaching over to ruffle his son’s hair. Jay looks up at him carefully, as if trying to get a read on the situation, and Harry laughs. He's seen this same serious look on his father's face as he examined the Marauder's Map, in a photo album he still treasures, and it is funny to see it reflected on Jay's features, so similar to his father's. His father is a grandfather now. It is still odd to think that, even though he's been one for over a decade now. “Budge over." He says. "There’s more than enough space here for both of us.”

Jay obediently budges over, not really one to think of defiance first, and Harry imagines the look of abject surprise on Minerva McGonagall’s face when she’d first met this sweet boy of his. He’s never asked, but he’s sure she’d been surprised by his kindhearted little Hufflepuff, just like everyone else. For a child who carries Sirius Black’s name, he’s remarkably well-behaved. Harry wonders, some times, if this was what his mother was like at eleven, calm and quiet and unbelievably kind. It wouldn't surprise him, from what he'd heard from those who knew her back then-- Remus Lupin's few sentences about his mother, that Harry had been holding close to his heart since his third year, were all neatly reflected in this child who, despite looking strikingly like James Potter, truly carries Lily Evan's heart. In that case, he definitely gave this child the wrong name, but from what he's learning from the little bits of information he manages to dig up, Lily Evans and Sirius Black were much more similar than either of them liked to let on. It was no accident, then, that they both caught James Potter's eye.

He’s done his best to teach his children not to feel beholden to the dead, now that he’s finally learnt the lesson himself. The names they carry are their own, the nicknames they choose are their own to make history under. But it is hard not to see the bits of people he knows and loves in them, in the way they smile or talk or walk. He sees his ambition reflected back at him in his younger son, who wants to be known and seen and recognized for what he's worth and what he can offer, and all his earthshaking worry in his oldest, and his skill with a broom in his youngest, his only girl. He sees Ginny's determined anger burning bright in all of his children, a whole spectrum of hiding and handling it between the the three of them, sees Ron's gift for strategy in his oldest and Fred and George's gift for mischief in all of them in different ways.

“I think you want to be a good person.” Jay pipes up, much to Harry’s surprise, a minute later. There is a strong, deep frown on his face, making him look much older than eleven (and two-thirds, Harry adds, though his son has long ago stopped adding fractions). He always does that, this strange son of Harry's-- everything he does is carefully calculated for maximum effect, and Harry has no idea how he manages it. It's likely why, despite having Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley for parents, he didn't end up in Gryffindor. One of many reasons, Harry thinks, watching his son consider his thoughts carefully. At that age, he never would've stopped to think. That, in itself, had been the root of many of his problems, and unfortunately, he'd passed that same bullheaded determination to his younger son. That would be a real treat, in a little over a year's time, when the little one (who is also not very little anymore) would start at Hogwarts. “And that’s the most important, ‘cause nobody’s good all the time. But you try, and you tell us to try too. So that’s a good start, isn’t it?”

Harry smiles. This is the seventeenth memorial of the Battle of Hogwarts, but he’s never once felt this good before delivering his annual speech.

He looks back at Jay, who smiles so bright Harry swears the sun is blinding him from where it's taken up residence in his little boy's face. He feels calm, feels at ease-- is this what the scribbled letter that he'd found in his Gringotts vault had meant? His father had written to no one in particular, on the day Harry was born, that God always sent people the ones they needed, in one way or another, and that Harry, truly, despite all of their fears and worries, was what they had needed. This son, Harry thinks, is truly a blessing, just like his siblings. All of his children came to him for a purpose, and that purpose is truly good. Maybe that is what's been happening all this time-- the good in him has been passed on to a new generation, one that will know how best to use it. They have no war to worry about, no parents to mourn, and Harry will work as tirelessly as he can to make sure that stays true.

He wants them to be good and safe and free in a way their parents and grandparents never were. He wants them to be kids. He wants them to just _be_.

“Yeah.” He says, reaching over to ruffle his son's hair again. He doesn't know how many years he'll have left where these childish, sweet things are allowed between father and son. He will make the most of it while it lasts. Jay scoots closer, the seat of his uniform trousers scraping awkwardly against the rough hewn stone bench, and lays his head on the side of Harry's arm, a tentative hand coming up to pat his shoulder. Harry can't help but feel like the whole world's brightened up. This could be a good day. “That’s a good start.”


End file.
